Scratches and Confessions
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: "I don't hate you. I could never hate you. That's the problem."


**Scratches and Confessions**

Jean was minding her own business, cleaning the house as she did every day. Obviously the entire house didn't need cleaning each and every day, so she'd often wander the rooms when no one was home and inspect for things that needed doing. She often had some spare time in between lunch and dinner, assuming Lucien didn't have patients or he didn't need her for one of his police cases.

On this particular afternoon, she was dusting in Genevieve Blake's old art studio. Lucien had just recently opened its sealed doors, showing her his mother's lovely paintings and the magical gold leaf floating up to the ceiling. It was a wonderful room, full of beauty. Jean liked to be in there, reminded of the look on Lucien's face and the sound of his voice as he showed her around. He had been excited to share his memories with her but the nostalgia bore a twinge of sadness, as did so many things with Dr. Lucien Blake.

In an effort to encourage Lucien and the rest of the household to spend more time in the studio, Jean had decided to keep it clean. A place so special shouldn't be marred by dust. She moved her feather duster along the surfaces with deft ease. It was still fairly clean from the last time she'd been in there, but she attended to every nook and cranny just the same.

She'd gotten distracted by the sparkling gold ceiling. As she gazed up at it, she inadvertently knocked a painting off the easel. She'd tried to grab it, but in doing so, she knocked it against the edge of the easel and it fell to the floor with a loud thud. Jean quickly tried to pick it up and put it back, but the damage was done. The corner of the canvas was dented from where it landed, and the paint on the front was scratched by the easel's edge. It might not have been fully ruined, but it was noticeably harmed.

Jean felt sick. She put the painting back in its place and hurried out of the room, closing the doors behind her. Unsure of what else to do, she went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

Mattie came home from work and found Jean sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, and staring at nothing with an unfocused gaze.

"Jean?" Mattie interrupted, frowning at the scene.

With a slight start, Jean blinked back to reality. "Ah. Mattie. Hello."

"Jean, is everything alright?" she asked with concern.

"I've done an awful thing. It was an accident, but that doesn't change anything. And I don't know what to do about it."

Mattie sat down across the table. "Oh no, what's happened?"

Jean shook her head, not really wanting to talk about it. She took another sip of her tea and gave a small sigh. "I just don't know how to tell Lucien," she lamented.

"Well, whatever it is, I'm sure he'll be understanding. Just explain to him that whatever you did wasn't intentional. You'd never do anything to hurt him on purpose, and he knows that. I'm sure he'll forgive you," Mattie commented optimistically.

"I'm not so sure. Intentional or not, I've done irreparable damage to something that matters to him a great deal." Jean stared at her teacup, wishing that it would make the awful feeling of guilt go away. "I just don't want to add to his troubles."

"Do you have to tell him right away?" Mattie asked, her suggestion implied.

"Oh yes. I don't want Lucien to find out without me telling him."

At that very moment, Dr. Blake came home to overhear Jean and Mattie talking in the kitchen. He popped his head through the servery window. "Find out what?" he asked.

Jean's eyes went wide with surprise and fear. It took Mattie's gentle kick under the table to get her to stand up. "I have something I need to show you," Jean finally said.

Lucien didn't like her tone or expression one bit. He followed her out of the kitchen and up to his mother's studio with apprehension.

"I've been trying to keep it clean in case you ever want to spend time in here," she began. "And today I was dusting and I knocked it off the easel and it got scratched and dented," Jean explained, pointing to the damaged painting. "It was so stupid of me to not pay better attention. I should have been more careful. I know what your mother's paintings mean to you, Lucien. I'm so very sorry." Jean put her face in her hands with shame. "Oh you must hate me. I would hate me if I were you."

Lucien could tell she was starting to babble and knew he needed to cut her off. "Jean, I don't hate you. I could never hate you. That's the problem."

She froze. Her heart skipped a beat, and she slowly looked up at him. "What?"

He took her hand and covered it with both of his. "I don't like seeing you get upset like this. And of course my mother's paintings mean the world to me, but there are more important things."

Jean didn't dare read into that statement. "But it can't be fixed. Not really. She had so few paintings, and this one is ruined."

"I don't think it's ruined," he countered, looking at the painting with a critical eye. He was still holding her hand. "No, I think it tells more of a story now. Before, I saw it as the last painting my mother worked on before her death. I actually have some memories of her working on it when I was a child. But now, it is also the painting that Jean Beazley scratched when she was in here, keeping the studio clean and tidy for me, should I ever want to be here. And she cares so very much that she had a fit of worry over it. Now, how could I ever hate a woman who cares for me so?"

"I…well, it is my job," Jean stammered.

"I certainly hope it's more than that," he replied quietly.

Jean swallowed hard. "What did you mean that it's a problem you can't hate me?"

Lucien smiled softly. "I know I don't always show it in the best way, and I really should, but I care for you just as much or more than you care for me, Jean. And at this point, I don't think there is a single thing you could ever do to change that. Now, I don't have much experience in such matters, but I don't think that's the proper way for a man to feel about his housekeeper."

"I don't mind," Jean murmured in reply.

He nodded. "I'm glad."

They gazed into each other's eyes for longer than was strictly appropriate. Jean was distinctly aware of how rough yet gentle his hands were on hers. She could almost sense him wanting to lean forward or pull her toward him, contemplating which to choose.

"Shall I start dinner?" Mattie called from the kitchen.

The spell was broken. Lucien let go of Jean's hand. She looked away and called back, "No, I'll come do it now." She started to walk past him back to the kitchen.

"Jean."

She paused and turned back to him.

"Please don't worry anymore about the painting."

"I won't." Jean allowed herself to give him a small half-smile before walking away.

Lucien watched her leave, allowing his eye to linger on the way she walked, the curve and movement of her body. When she was gone, he sat down on the sofa and gazed at his mother's painting. He remained there, enjoying how it was improved by the new scratches until he was called for dinner.


End file.
